


Obi-Wan and the Banaana

by obiwanbanana66



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Humor, Padawan Obi-Wan, Pre-Series, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 13:21:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11314245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obiwanbanana66/pseuds/obiwanbanana66
Summary: Sick and tired of his master's saber-happy version of diplomacy, Obi-Wan decides to wait the violence out in a crowded bar on the lonely jungle planet Yijilii. Unfortunately, language barriers are real, and what happens next might ruin his appreciation of curvy fruit forever...





	Obi-Wan and the Banaana

Qui-Gon piloted the ship into the steamy atmosphere of Yijilii, searching for a landing pad hidden among the dense jungle foliage. Next to him, Obi-Wan sat with his arms crossed. Qui-Gon glanced at his padawan as he carefully positioned the ship for a landing.

  
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You look upset.”

  
Obi-Wan blew a deep breath out through his nose. He knew he couldn’t hide anything from his master, so he didn’t bother trying. “I’m hoping we can get off this planet as quickly as possible,” he said shortly as the ship locked down.

“Ah, I see.” Qui-Gon opened the ship’s doors and stepped into the thick, moist air. “You’re still recovering from our last encounter?”

“If by ‘recovering’ you mean trying to understand how cutting off a man’s arm is part of a diplomatic mission, then yes.”

Qui-Gon surveyed the rope bridge that led deep into the jungle village. He nodded, and beckoned for Obi-Wan to follow him. “To be fair, he was resisting senatorial orders,” he said, glancing back. Obi-Wan’s mouth was closed tightly. “I don’t expect you to understand everything right now. Just follow my lead. And try to have a good attitude.”

Obi-Wan dropped his eyes, noticed the endless drop to the jungle floor, and fixed his gaze on the back of Qui-Gon’s head. “I’m sorry, Master,” he said, gripping the rope that served as a guard rail.

They reached a small village, populated by bears lumbering about on five legs and striped furry creatures hopping about on one. By this time, Obi-Wan had learned not to stare. He did, however, notice his master’s fingers dancing about his lightsaber, and couldn’t suppress another sigh.

Qui-Gon turned around, and Obi-Wan immediately dropped his gaze, chagrined. His master jerked his head toward the largest building, a squarish mound of thatch balanced on the edge of the hundred-foot wooden platform that made up this part of the village. A large sign blinked something in letters Obi-Wan couldn’t quite recognize. “If my diplomacy bothers you, you’d best wait in there for a bit. If I know Yijiliian dealers, this could get messy.”

“Yes, Master.” Obi-Wan bowed his head slightly. Qui-Gon smirked and – if Obi-Wan was not mistaken – winked before striding into the mist.

With a longsuffering sigh, Obi-Wan entered the large building. Creatures crowded it from wall to thatched wall, grunting, babbling in strange languages, and humming. Obi-Wan wrinkled his nose as the smell of alcohol mixed with alien sweat hit him. A large bar sagged in the middle of the room, and off to one side, turquoise women with several eyes danced wildly to exotic music. Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow and hovered in the doorway.

A tonal hum buzzed through his head and a large bear shoved him, eyeing him angrily. Obi-Wan stepped to the side, only to be shoved again, surrounded by furry aliens humming antagonistically. He could only assume it was some language. He tried to sign that he was friendly, but they didn’t understand.

“Better to blend in,” he thought, although he wasn’t sure how that was possible, given that he only had two legs and was quite furless. Somehow, the aliens had shoved him toward the bar, and before he knew what was going on, he was sitting on a stool five feet above the ground and staring into the face of a sweat-crusted bartender, bits of drool and saliva dangling from the orange fur protruding from his face. He hummed viciously, and Obi-Wan recoiled from his foul breath. He tried to wave him away. The bartender turned, scratched the side of his head with one of his four arms, and pointed to a sign above the bar that blinked in fading red letters. Obi-Wan glanced at it, confused, and nodded curtly. The bartended shrugged.

The other aliens watched him suspiciously, but after he turned his attention fully to his hands, they turned away. He was sweating profusely and could hardly breathe in this air – it was twice as thick as the air outside. The bartender returned, plunking a tall glass of some thick red liquid in front of Obi-Wan. He sat back, frowning, but after realizing the bartender was staring at him suspiciously, picked it up. It smelled horrible – like rotten fruit mixed with fumes from the speeder factories on Coruscant – and he had to hold his breath as he sipped it, praying it wasn’t poison.

It tasted surprisingly good, though it did feel like the skin in his throat was peeling away in anguish. He did his best not to make a face as he swallowed it, and the bartender turned away, apparently satisfied. Obi-Wan wiped the sweat off his forehead, which had doubled after tasting the drink. Padawans weren’t supposed to drink, and to this point, he had obediently followed that directive. Still, what was he supposed to do? Qui-Gon had abandoned him here until further notice, and although it smelled like garbage, it didn’t taste half bad. Besides – he glanced around the room – no one else seemed to be dropping dead from it, even the more humanoid creatures. He tasted it again, and liked it better.

“In the spirit of Master Qui-Gon,” he decided.

 

_Some Time Later_

 

He hadn’t noticed the banaanas before – a curved yellow fruit, native to jungle planets, rarely imported to Coruscant – his favorite. Now, as the lights danced around the bar, he saw a cluster of them hanging only a few inches – perhaps feet – perhaps yards – from his face. With a colossal effort, he sat up and reached for them.

“Banaanas,” he muttered, putting one knee on the bar to aid his efforts. The bar buckled and he nearly toppled head-first into the interior. He caught his balance and sat heavily down, deeply disappointed. The banaanas danced tauntingly just in front of him. It was strangely upsetting. He downed the rest of the strange red drink – flowed like lava – and stared despondently.

Well, he was a Jedi, wasn’t he? How hadn’t that occurred to him before? He rubbed his forehead. The Force was everywhere – this place was fairly swimming with it.

He could feel so much Force he could hardly feel the stool under him. Stretching out his hand, he focused on the banaana’s – a strangely difficult task, the room was so wavy and loud – and finally broke one off and it floated toward him. He grabbed it and stroked its long curve.

“Banaana,” he said, fondly caressing it. A growl sounded in his ear. Some of the space bears were staring at him. He held the banaana protectively close to his chest. “My banaana,” he said, as a wet snout nosed closer. His lip trembled. It was his banaana. His favorite banaana. He loved the banaana.

Love…but love…love was forbidden by the Jedi Order, was it not? He stared in horror at his yellow love, cool and curvy in his hand. Tears sprung into his eyes. Forbidden to love his banaana! He clutched it to his chest and sobbed. The creatures stared.

 

_More Time Later_

 

Qui-Gon slipped into the bar, a satisfied smirk gracing his face. Another dealer apprehended, another mystery solved. And Obi-Wan didn’t need to know another hand had been lost in the process. That hand had been responsible for the detriment of many poor souls, anyway. And speaking of Obi-Wan…  
Qui-Gon squinted into the foggy interior, stealthily weaving between the natives. It took all of his Jedi Master restraint to keep his mouth from dropping open. In the back, a motley band wheezed a Yijilii song of love and loss – and standing on the bar was his very own padawan.

Standing was a loose term. Obi-Wan lurched half in time with the music, holding himself up with a metal hook bolted to the ceiling, which held a cluster of banaanas. And there in his padawan’s arm was one of the fruits – rocking back and forth as Obi-Wan sung to it, loudly out of tune, breaking every few measures to sob. The inhabitants around him hummed widely variant tones of Yiijilese, some laughing, others threatening to throw the drunk out. Qui-Gon was caught between intervening and dying of suppressed laughter.

“Sing with me,” Obi-Wan pleaded with the barkeep, who was staring unimpressed at him. “Sing, come on.” He warbled a couple lines – “Oh, banaana, my love, sent from fruity heavens above, forbidden by my Jedi Code –” He shook his head at the barkeep, who was humming angrily. “No, that’s not the tune…it’s like…”  
He caught sight of Qui-Gon, and the banaana nearly slipped from his grasp. “You,” he mouthed, letting go of the banaana hook and tumbling off the bar. Qui-Gon stepped forward to catch him, wheezing with laughter. Obi-Wan pushed him away, leaning heavily against the side of the bar. “You – you forbid my love – you forbade my love, the banaana!”

“I don’t recall,” Qui-Gon managed, between death throes of laughter.

“You did! You and all the Jedi Order! I’m bound to the Jedi, but – but I love – the banaana!” Obi-Wan wailed, and drew his lightsaber. The inhabitants jumped back, and Qui-Gon stopped laughing.

“You want to put that away,” he said, waving his hand in front of his inebriated student.

Obi-Wan lashed forward. “I want to love my banaana!” he cried, tears streaming down his bright red face. “How can you come between true love?” The lightsaber slipped, and Qui-Gon expertly parried, saving Obi-Wan from cutting off his own arm but severing the banaana in the process.

Obi-Wan’s face sagged with horror. “How could you?” he screamed, lunging forward. “You killed my banaana!”

“It’s a fruit!” Qui-Gon said, parrying again and attempting to disarm Obi-Wan. He missed – Obi-Wan moved drunkenly and unpredictably – but he did slice off the arm of the barkeep.

The monster roared, and the bar descended into chaos. Obi-Wan swung wildly, relieving a few more patrons of their limbs. Qui-Gon parried wildly, defending himself from brutish claws as well as he could. “You don’t love the banaana!” he tried Force suggestion.

“I – am – your – padawan!” Obi-Wan accented each word with a forceful swing of his lightsaber. “I know your mind tricks! I love that banaana! I – I can even spell it!”

“I’m very proud of you,” Qui-Gon said, grabbing a purse off one inhabitant and tossing it to the disarmed barkeep.

“B-A-N,” Obi-Wan sang, lurching forward and barely missing his own blade, “A-N, A.”

“Missed an A,” Qui-Gon grunted, fighting toward the door. Obi-Wan followed.

“Does it matter? Does true love care about spelling?”

“Well, without the A it’s an entirely different fruit –” Qui-Gon caught sight of the banaanas still dangling above the bar. Lowering his light saber for half a second, he Force-pulled the cluster to him. “Put your lightsaber away, Obi-Wan! You want these banaanas.”

Obi-Wan paused, swaying, and switched off his saber. He stumbled to his master, clutching the cluster to his chest. “I…am…Obi-Wan Banana,” he muttered, and collapsed, vomiting. Qui-Gon put away his lightsaber and raised his hands.

“Jedi business!” he announced. “Nothing to see here!”

The occupants stared at him, and sullenly picked up their limbs and returned to their normal lives. Qui-Gon nodded at Obi-Wan, who stood up, dazed, and then crumpled unconscious into his arms.

Qui-Gon Force-lifted him onto his back and hauled him back out to the ship. As soon as he was out of earshot of the village, he roared with laughter. Birds flew out of the trees and lizards skirted toward the forest below. With generous use of the Force, Qui-Gon lifted his inebriated padawan into his seat and strapped him in.

They were halfway to Coruscant before he came to.

 

_Even More Time Later_

 

Obi-Wan sat up with a start, and was immediately assaulted by thousands of stars stabbing his brain. He dropped his head into his hands and groaned. Where was he? Last he remembered, Master Qui-Gon had dropped him off in some bar…and now he was strapped into some sort of chair…was he in prison? Half-panicked, he looked up. Master Qui-Gon sat beside him, working the controls and chuckling to himself.

“Look who woke up,” he said cheerfully.

“What…” Every word sent spikes into his brain. Why did he feel like his stomach had dropped out beneath him? “Are we…flying?”  
“Halfway to Coruscant,” Qui-Gon said, still chuckling.

“What?” Obi-Wan squinted out the window, to see actual stars flying by. He slouched in his seat, rubbing his face. “What…what happened? I…was there a fight?”

“You could say that,” Qui-Gon said, laughing ominously.

Obi-Wan had a bad feeling about this. He retched, and bitterness flooded his tongue. He clamped his hand over his mouth, and after a second, gingerly brought it away. Red tinged his fingers. “Am...am I bleeding?” he asked, his voice tinged with panic. Funny, he could usually prevent that. Why was everything so…blurry?

“No, no.” Qui-Gon laughed again, for a good thirty seconds. Obi-Wan felt wildly uneasy. “No, you just had a little too much Yiji juice.”

“Yiji…what?”

“Yiji juice. Made from the Yiji fig, native to Yijilii? You ought to know that. How will you pass your Trial of Knowledge?” Qui-Gon kept breaking into little fits of giggling. Obi-Wan couldn’t recall ever seeing his master giggle before. It was probably not a good sign. “A highly alcoholic fruit. Of all people, Obi-Wan! Do you consider inebriation diplomatic?”

Obi-Wan felt his face go blank. “Oh…no. Please no. Don’t tell me I –”

Qui-Gon could hardly speak for laughing. “Yes,” he managed.

Obi-Wan covered his mouth and sank deeper into his seat. “Oh…not good,” he rasped, his throat going dry and his face flooding with heat that felt uncomfortably familiar. Qui-Gon lost all control. Thankfully for both of them, the ship was primarily in autopilot.

“You were ranting about banaanas!” Qui-Gon roared. “You were in love with a banaana! You sang to it, and cradled it, and wouldn’t stop going on about it…”

Obi-Wan groaned and sank as deeply into his chair as the restraint would allow. “I’m going to be sick,” he said faintly.

“Please don’t,” Qui-Gon said, his laughter subsiding. “I just had the dashboard waxed. And you know who would be doing the cleaning once we get back to Coruscant.”

Coruscant…Obi-Wan shook his head, which was now redder than the Yiji fig itself. “Please don’t tell Master Yoda, or Master Windu, or…anyone. Please, Master – you can punish me however you want – but please, please, never mention this to anyone.”

“Oh, I won’t,” Qui-Gon said. Obi-Wan didn’t even need to look at him to see the twinkle in his eye. It was in his very voice.

He definitely had a horrible feeling about this.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, if you made it this far, it's safe to say we have a similar sense of humor. Congratulations -- you have joined the Obi-Wan Banaana Fan Club. Thanks for reading, and remember to drink responsibly. ;)


End file.
